Shadow Realm
by Alexandria de Loraine
Summary: Non-canon. Voldemort may be dead, but the dark arts are not. Mature for future content. Largely centered around Hermione, as she learns of the shadow realm.
1. Chapter 1

This is a work of fiction, non-canon with consideration to the original series, although some plot-points are similar, there has been significant personal-tampering with characters and plot.

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_They are coming for you; they will find you, they will not stop until they have you._

She sat in the library of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, staring vacantly at the pages before her, having remained upon the same page for more than an hour. Her thoughts roved expansively, unsettled and unsettling, turning in great circles, returning again and again to the same point. '_Where did it all go wrong?_' she wondered, leaning back and closing her eyes.

Voldemort was dead; Harry had taken care of that nearly two years ago. Most of his followers were dead, too, or locked away in Azkaban, either waiting for, or having already received, their kiss. When she had gone to that horrid place to get Draco Malfoy out, she had found it totally repugnant that human beings were treated thus. Perhaps leaving those people 'alive' did something to soothe the malleable conscience of the people, but Hermione looked into the vacant eyes of the inmates, and she was disgusted by what she saw.

It would have been better to simply kill them. Certainly, it would have been far more humane than how they were currently wasting away. Thankfully, she had gotten to Draco Malfoy before they sucked his soul out, and he owed his life to her now. With his mother dead and his father gone missing without a trace since Voldemort's death, the young Malfoy had inherited everything -- all the remaining wealth, the estate, and the library.

"Hermione," she was jolted from her thoughts by the soft voice of Ginny, opening her eyes and looking over sharply. "Sorry if I've disturbed you, there was no response when I knocked," the younger girl said apologetically, closing the door behind her and coming toward Hermione, "you've been up here all day, are you hungry?"

"Not really," she shook her head, looking tiredly at the red-head, "thanks, though."

Ginny looked at her, indecisively, her gaze flickering over Hermione's weary eyes and the open book in front of her, "did you sleep at all last night?"

For more than a minute, Hermione did not answer, staring blankly at the book in front of her rather than at Ginny. Then she sighed, closing the book, "as much as I ever do anymore."

It was perplexing to Ginny that since Voldemort's death, Hermione seemed to have sunk into a prolonged depression. With the end of the war, Ginny had expected that life would return to normalcy for everyone involved; indeed, as soon as Harry had recovered from his battle with Voldemort, the two had married. Now, at twenty-three, and nearly two years after the fact, Hermione had never seemed more despondent and dejected about the world.

The young Mrs. Potter wanted so desperately to help her friend, yet as time had passed, Hermione seemed only to have grown more distant and more different from her past self. Surely, she had ever been a rather lone-going and self-sufficient person, but since the end of their school years, and even moreso since the end of the war, the classic bookworm had drifted further and further from those she had once called friends.

"Hermione," Ginny began, but bit her tongue, uncertain what to say, "you can talk to me, you know, if you ever want to, if you need to -- I'll listen."

Hermione smiled wanly, "I know, Ginny. Thank you for checking on me, but right now I'd just like to be alone. There are many things for me to think about."

It bothered her to leave her friend alone again, but Ginny realized that there was nothing else Hermione wished to say, so she retreated to the door, casting a final look at the brown-haired girl before departing the library. Ginny didn't understand what had happened to Hermione after the final battle. Even Harry didn't quite know what had taken over his best friend, although he had suffered a similar period of depression in the aftermath of the war.

Losing Ron had been a blow which hit close to the heart for both of them, in those final days of the battle. Over the following months, however, Harry had been able to recollect himself and regain his ability to function in his daily life; he had established a successful career as an auror in the aftermath of the battle, rounding up many of the scattered remnants of Voldemort's forces and putting them before justice.

Hermione had caught Bellatrix and put her to death, having singled her out in the final battle and separated her from the general melee. It was quick, nearly effortless, to end the monstrous woman's life, but ultimately it did nothing to avenge the murder of Ron. However annoying, utterly irritating and banal Ron had been, all the same he was her friend; she still dreamt of him, remembered him, and missed him.

Yet the late Ronald Weasley was not the focal point of her thoughts that day, although his death did mark a turning point in her life. Having taken the lives of at least four others during the final battle, she had come to think at great length about what it meant to kill someone. Under what circumstances was it acceptable, and under what circumstances was it not?

The more deeply she considered what were taken for granted as fundamentals of life by the majority of people, the further apart she felt herself drifting from those she knew.

Saving Draco Malfoy had been a very good decision on her part, Hermione came to realize after the fact. He had been festering away for three months in Azkaban by the time she had forced those in control to sign the proper paperwork (goddamn bureaucracy) which authorized his unconditional freedom.

The look upon his pale face when his cell door swung wide to reveal her had been utterly priceless, and when she had unshackled him and declared that he was free, he'd stared at her in silence, certain she was playing a cruel joke on him.

_"Are you going to kill me now?" _he'd demanded, staring at her with hard eyes, trying not to appear as desperately confused as he was.

_"Don't be ridiculous. If I were going to kill you, I'd have done it ages ago Draco. Here," she held out his wand, offering him the handle. How she had gotten her hands on it, Draco had no idea, since he thought it was destroyed when he entered the prison, but the moment his fingers touched the wood, he knew it was indeed his wand. _

_ He stood numbly, staring at her, holding his wand tightly, yet unable to open his mouth; unable to bring himself to speak he was so shocked._

_ "No one knows where your father is, he hasn't been seen since Voldemort died; you should go to your estate and get your affairs in order, tie up any loose ends your father may have left. I'll call on you in a week. You're free, Draco Malfoy," she turned then and walked out of his cell, leaving the door wide open behind her._

Despite griping a bit about the matter, Harry had ultimately acquiesced before Hermione's superior logic concerning the matter of Draco Malfoy's freedom. Eventually, Harry had to admit that the chief reason he wanted to see Draco suffer away indefinitely in Azkaban was for personal rivalry, not that Draco actually legitimately deserved the punishment. For Hermione, saving Malfoy meant that he owed her allegiance, and indeed Draco seemed to understand this implicitly, for he made every effort to be courteous toward her in the aftermath of attaining his freedom, and he willingly accommodated her when she wished to visit his estate.

Between the library at the old Black residence, and the library at the Malfoy estate, Hermione had gained access to a rich history of black magic and dark tales. Most intriguing to her had been several books of folklore, essentially what she saw as wizard fairy-tales, which time and again alluded to dark forces, to sinister, long-lived evil. There were creatures depicted who were filled with mal-intent and nefarious intentions.

Hermione wanted to know more about so-called wraiths, daemons -- she had devoured readily every book she could find on the subjects at hand, yet still could not form a cohesive image of whole matter at hand. As she studied, she was drawn toward the volumes of dark magic; several of the books she studied in Draco's library had been protected with complex curses that had to be deactivated every single time one wished to read the volume, while there were others, a whole pile of them, which it seemed impossible to open.

Despite the interesting and varied spells, enchantments and potions which Hermione learned about as she studied the volumes, she still found precious little information about what was cryptically referred to as 'over there'.

From 'this side here', one could go 'over there', and from 'over there' was whence the wraiths came, the daemons and the darkness.

Neither Harry nor Ginny actually knew for certain what Hermione was holed away studying all the time, nor did they know that she was more frequently visiting the Malfoy residence than ever before, to spend hours in Draco's library poring over old texts. Indeed, the pair of them did not seem to fully comprehend that Hermione was not suffering a prolonged depression following Ron's death, but rather that she was profoundly disappointed and disillusioned with the general state of the world.

The war had shown many people for what they truly were, and in the aftermath there was a great deal of revision which went on in the memories of most of her peers, especially concerning their own role and the role of their family members in the whole ordeal.

The news coverage of her and Harry in the aftermath of the battle had been suffocating, and the articles written by one Ms. Skeeter had earned her great loathing from Hermione. Simultaneously, Hermione was supposed to have been in deep mourning for the loss of Ron, the shining love of her life, while she was also in mourning and green with envy over Harry marrying Ginny, according to the vile little bug.

Due to this combination of factors, Hermione more or less became a recluse; and she preferred it that way. Despite her best efforts to protect them during the war, her parents had been targeted and killed shortly before the end of it, and so she had wrapped up the loose ends of their affairs and sold her childhood home. The money from that sale she had intelligently stacked away and invested appropriately; she owned a ten percent stake in Fred and George's blossoming enterprise, which made a nice return to her bank account each year.

Thus, it was in April, just after the twins celebrated their birthday with a low-key (for them) bash at the Weasley family home, that Hermione found herself next at the door of the grand Malfoy estate. Draco kept the place up surprisingly well, although considering his high-breeding, not to mention the many house-elves dedicated to the task, she supposed she shouldn't really be surprised. It was mid-afternoon, just after four o'clock, and after a few moments of waiting, the door opened silently before her and a small house-elf appeared.

The house-elf in question was named Gabe, and he admitted Hermione with a customary bow, "welcome, Ms. Granger, how are you today?"

Gabe closed the door behind her, then encouraged her to follow him through the entry hall as she responded, "as well as can be expected. It's a good day. Is Draco home?"

"Yes," Gabe had taken her through to the office Draco had chosen to occupy, close to the front door on the ground level of the property. Admitted to the room, Hermione was met with Draco's even gaze from where he sat behind his desk, comfortably leaned back in his chair.

"Bring tea," Draco instructed the elf, and then Gabe nodded and left, leaving Draco to stand and address Hermione alone, "how is my shining saviour this fine afternoon?"

He came round the side of his desk and offered her a seat, and Hermione acquiesced, sitting down and making herself comfortable while Draco resumed his own chair. "You do lay it on thickly, don't you," she remarked, "is your father alive?"

Draco stared at her in startled surprise, then guardedly, "I don't know," he hedged, "why?"

"Because he knows a great deal about black magic," Hermione answered bluntly, staring Draco in the eye, "and I have a vested interest in learning as much as I can about such matters."

Draco regarded her, then nodded slowly, "I see your point, Hermione," he had grown accustomed to using her given name when he addressed her, "but I don't know where he is."

She nodded slowly, "but you do think he's alive?"

Draco nodded, "I think he must be. Otherwise, I would have found his body."

Indeed, he had been meticulously thorough in his spell-work in the aftermath of being freed. His work returned no trace of his father, though, so while Draco did not know where he could have possibly gone, he did know that the man was alive somewhere. Where Lucius Malfoy was, who knew, but he hadn't surfaced since that fateful night, so Draco had taken over with the public assumption being a presumption of death on the part of Lucius.

Gabe returned with the tea then, setting a steaming cup in front of each of them and then leaving the remainder in the pot upon the table. The large-eared elf went away again, and Hermione sipped her tea thoughtfully, regarding Draco mildly. His time in Azkaban had done something to him, introduced a docility to his character that was downright unnatural to a Malfoy. Certainly, she'd never envisioned being on a first name basis with the man.

His hair was short and kept clean, still pale blond in colour, although it had grown slightly darker with age, and although he kept his face smooth and clean, his jaw had filled out and his shoulders grown broad with the full effect of testosterone. She remembered punching him when they were students, and how skinny he'd been at the time, how weak he'd seemed.

"Will you tell me if you learn more about his situation?" she asked at long.

He sat his tea-cup down, looking her in the eye again, though they were several feet apart, and then he finally nodded, "I suppose. In the meantime, what are you interested in?"

Hermione sipped some more of her tea, looking at Draco, then past his head, out the window behind his desk, through which she could see some of the surrounding woods. "I am drawn to the unknown," she didn't see it, but a knowing glint entered Draco's eyes as he listened to her, and she spoke somewhat slowly, choosing her words carefully, "there is so much I don't know about that part of magic, and I need to know all I can. You know, Draco, as I know, that most people simply do magic, they don't understand it in its entirety, though. I want to understand all of it, I want to learn all its aspects.

"I can't find everything in books," she sighed at last, looking at him.

There was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but Draco continued surprisingly civilly, "you know, the dark arts are a seductive mistress. Perhaps you should steer clear."

"I know that, Draco," Hermione snapped, standing up and pacing a few steps, "that is why I am tentative in my approach. I've already used some of them, I killed your lunatic aunt you remember, that took some underhanded play on my part."

"Alright," Draco intoned placatingly, holding out his hand flat and open, "so you're as tedious and painstaking as you ever were, very well. It's true, you have to know the whole organism to be master of it. Have you looked through the library for information on some of the old and great spell-masters?"

Eyeing him shrewdly, Hermione nodded, "yes, although you're missing titles. I have other, excellent, resources too, you know."

"Well, perhaps you should look again, you're welcome to go," he motioned toward the doorway, and Hermione stared at him a moment longer, glared for a moment, then took her leave of him and headed toward the library. Draco watched her go, his blue eyes flicking up and down over the curve of her ass and thighs in her tight jeans. He was dressed traditionally in wizarding robes, but the sight of her curvaceous rear made him appreciative of at least one thing muggle.

He'd go to the grave before admitting it to a soul, but Draco had realized shortly after getting out of Azkaban that he still desperately wanted to dominate the book-worm Granger. It would be entirely improper to describe his sentiments toward her as love, and he knew that well enough, but his cock ached at the thought of sexually dominating her.

Since their school years, when he'd seen her for the first time as a buxom young woman in what seemed an indecently short skirt, he'd grown increasingly aroused at the thought of having her, essentially as his concubine. Draco reasoned with himself that the primary reason he found her so sexually appealing was precisely because he knew the catty little tart would never acquiesce to him. Her haughtiness toward him only inspired further lurid fantasies, though.

All the same, since she seemed utterly none the wiser, he indulged himself in observing her appearance, and in imagining just what he'd do to her, at leisure when she was present.

Hermione was quietly contemplating just what she should be looking for, having been in the library some fifteen minutes, when she suddenly became aware that she was not alone in the library. There was, contrary to her initial assumption, indeed one hook-nosed, black-robed formerly dungeon-dwelling Severus Snape, who had been sitting still toward the middle of the room, in a comfortable chair with several books nearby.

She had hardly seen or heard of the man since the final battle, but despite the years since he had taught her, she still respected Snape a great deal more than Harry could ever appreciate. Of course, the man could be, and usually was, a total and complete git, cruel and unfair, uncompromising, and utterly stinging in his critique, but he was also incredibly intelligent, and she harboured a great respect for his skill and dedication to his art.

Severus Snape was a fine wizard, truly deserving of the title, but it would be a joke for her to think she'd ever known him extremely well. Now she became aware of him as he stood, just a few feet away from her, at the end of the bookcase she stood by. He had watched her enter, and though he thought about telling her off and sending her away, he had instead chosen to watch and see what she did; then stood to approach her after a few minutes.

"Professor," she greeted him awkwardly, looking at him closely and seeing that his black hair was streaked here and there with white strands.

Snape shook his head, "not for several years now, Ms. Granger. What brings you to the young Lord Malfoy's estate?"

It would not have surprised Snape for Draco to want to be sexually involved with the young woman, but he would indeed have been shocked if she reciprocated. He'd seen the way Draco used to look at her, with predatory lust, from time to time while they were students, but he'd also seen that the girl was immune to Draco's sex-appeal. But then, he knew full well that Hermione Granger was the woman who orchestrated Draco's freedom, so Snape wasn't sure where she stood. If there was no romantic-sexual motivation for her actions, then he wondered what it was she stood to gain from indebting Draco to her in the way she had.

"I come to borrow his books from time to time," Hermione answered truthfully, then stepped a bit closer, looking quizzically at her old professor, "why are you here?"

Snape smirked; looking at her a moment more before he walked back over to where he'd been sitting. As he expected, she followed him over and took a seat across from him.

"My reason is much the same," Snape said at last, "although, I am Draco's god-father you know, so I could just be visiting."

"I suppose you could be," she nodded, "what are you reading?"

Snape had cleared away his books, so she could not investigate the titles, and he waved his hand dismissively, "just some old, archaic things, nothing particularly conversation-starting. I have heard you are a lonely spinster, hiding away from the world, yet here you appear not to be."

Hermione huffed, sighing through her nose, "the papers are full of utter tosh, and you should know that sir. Don't trust a word of it."

His eyes glinted, and he nodded, amused, "yes, I dare say they are."

"I loathe that woman," Hermione fumed, "I swear, someday I'm going to get my hands on her again, and when I do she's never going to be free again."

"My dear Ms. Granger," Snape made a tsk-ing noise, clicking his tongue against his teeth, "you sound downright vengeful. Have you fallen from Gryffindor grace so soon?"

Hermione laughed slightly at that, shaking her head and stating quite clearly, "no, not vengeful. She's just such a creeper, literally. If she fell off a cliff tomorrow, I'd celebrate."

Just then Draco entered the library, having chosen to come down and see what may have transpired between Snape and Hermione. He closed the door behind himself and came over to join them, eyeing each of them sitting in chairs, "so I see neither one of you fled, that's good. Having a nice chit-chat?" Draco smirked, seating himself in a chair as well, "you know, Hermione, you might ask Severus any questions you may have. He's a very powerful, very knowledgeable wizard; I believe he may know something about spell-masters."

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Feedback is appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three weeks since she had been at the Malfoy estate, and it was now mid-May. Hermione had learned more from Severus Snape than she had known before, some of it back at the Malfoy estate, the rest through written correspondence since then. She wasn't sure where Snape was staying, but he responded in a timely fashion and with some regularity. As she should have known, certainly she should have guessed, Snape was damn near a spell-master in his own right; that was why he was able to craft his own spells.

After she'd left that day, she'd realized that it was actually a remarkable stroke of fortune that she had encountered her old professor. He was, perhaps, even more knowledgeable about black magic than Lucius was, and since Lucius was nowhere to be found, having Snape suddenly manifest was damn good luck. Of course, he was probably still to be considered an abrasive git, and he didn't like Harry any more than he ever had, but Hermione was overall very pleased to have seen him again, and to again be in contact with him.

She hadn't realized it, but it had been a while since she'd had a thoroughly intellectually stimulating conversation with someone, and she found that she appreciated Snape's broad knowledge-base all the more now that she was older and had gained further life experience, as compared to when she was younger and would frequently feel herself gripped by despondency due to his scathing attitude.

Still, the full moon was approaching. Ever since the end of the war, Hermione had been brewing Remus Lupin's wolfsbane potion for him, as she had managed to obtain the procedure for it, and as no one else volunteered, she simply took to doing it herself. It was late at night when she finished, bottling up the potion to give it to Remus the following day, and she retired to her bedroom totally exhausted and ready for sleep.

As had become the norm, her sleep was deep but filled with unusual and bizarre dreams. At once she dreamt that she was falling through cold darkness, and that she was caught and held by something warm and strong, she could see shadows flickering at the corner of her vision, and someone was whispering in her ear over and over again, _'they are coming for you.'_

It was early in the morning when she woke again, remembering only disjointed snippets of her dreams, and she stumbled from bed into a hot shower, standing under the water for more than half an hour before she scrubbed herself clean and got out again. As she dressed, she felt somewhat numb and distant from her senses, her thoughts drifted back to the last letter she received from Snape. He was a sly old bastard when he wanted to be, that was for certain.

Somehow, he had weaseled all she knew out of her, and he had informed her that he was very familiar with 'the world there', as well as 'this one here'. Still, he wouldn't elucidate her as to what the terms meant, and she could only guess at it, uncertain how correct she was. It occurred to her, however, that she should probably ask Snape if he had ever made any headway in his experiments with a permanent form of wolfsbane, and she made a mental note to do so.

The old Black residence was usually fairly empty, since Ginny spent most of her time working with Fred and George, or at her parents' house, and Harry virtually lived in his office, he was so in love with his job. Hermione had her own flat, near to the house on Grimmauld Place, but she spent most of her time at the Grimmauld residence, and had her own bedroom there. Her mini-lab was set up in the spare bedroom of her flat, though, and that was where she slept, and where she met with Remus when he came to collect his potions each month.

Making herself a cup of tea, she cooked herself some scrambled eggs and toasted bread in the toaster, appreciative of the muggle convenience of electricity. Magic was quite convenient, but she didn't want to simply wave her wand to accomplish everything, so she had chosen to get a flat in a regular muggle building, where she had electricity and high-speed internet. She'd also chosen to get a laptop, although she hadn't put it to much use -- there were very few other witches or wizards who had bothered to pay any attention to the developing muggle technology.

Even most muggleborns, so far as she could tell, once entered into the world of magic, tended to rely extensively on magic and to lose touch with the muggle world they had come from. The internet was totally foreign to them, as were cellular phones, the tube, the cinema, etc.

After the war, Hermione more or less withdrew unto herself. From time to time, she would visit Diagon Alley, sometimes to see the twins and their shop, usually simply because she needed more supplies, or to get a specific book for her collection, etc. but generally she kept to herself. This was how she preferred it to be, and she hoped that in time she could go out among people again and not be immediately recognized and watched by someone or other.

There were also the customary celebrations at the Weasley residence, whenever someone had a birthday or there was a holiday -- with a more solemn day on Ron's birthday and the day of his death, as well as all the others who died that day of the final battle.

With her breakfast made and eaten, she took up a comfortable spot on her bed and settled down to read for a few hours, waiting for Remus to arrive.

She had dozed off with her book falling across her chest when there was a knock on her front door. At first she did not hear it or stir, but when it came again harder and louder, she woke up and set aside her book, grabbing up her wand from her bedside table and hurrying to the front door. After peering through the peep-hole, she stowed her wand and unbolted the door, opening it to admit Remus Lupin.

He was wearing a black jacket and a crisp dark-blue shirt, tucked into black trousers, but he looked a bit tired, and Hermione readily ushered him into the dining area attached to her kitchen. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked once he was seated.

"Certainly, thank you," Remus answered, and he shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over the back of his chair. His hair had attained a few more grey streaks, but was largely still sandy brown in colour, trimmed quite short, and his face was only lightly lined.

Hermione set her kettle on to boil and left the room briefly to retrieve the potions from her guest-room, bringing them back to the kitchen and giving them to Remus. He accepted them and thanked her, shrinking them and stowing them safely in the pocket of his coat.

"I ran into Snape recently," she commented, sitting down beside him to wait for the kettle to boil, and looking thoughtfully at him.

Remus looked at her, surprised, "where on earth did you run into him?"

She smiled, looking down, "he was at the Malfoy estate when I went there recently; since Draco owes me a certain debt, I've been allowed access to his library. I don't tell him this, because it will only go to his head, but he's got an admirable collection of books."

"Hermione," Remus started, sounding concerned, "what in the world could you be studying that you would need more than what is already available at Grimmauld?"

Biting her tongue, she considered what to tell Remus, then settled on a half-truth, "just information about spell-masters," she shrugged nonchalantly, "there's not much about them, you know, only the odd note here and there, it's actually rather frustrating."

Over the years since the end of the war, Hermione and Remus had developed a friendly relationship with one another. They weren't the closest that two people could ever get, and there was the odd moment of awkwardness between them owing to their previous relationship as student and teacher, but Remus was one of the only people she called her friend who was similarly interested in scholarly pursuits and book-reading as she was. As a result, they would generally sit and chat for a while on the days he came for his potions, although they saw each other for little other reason generally and only exchanged sporadic contact by post.

Remus would sometimes drop in at the Grimmauld house, too, and if Hermione was around at the time, then they would usually eat dinner with Harry and Ginny in the evening. He had drifted somewhat aimlessly since the war, initially uncertain as to why he had survived when all his other friends were killed. Even visiting Sirius' house brought back bittersweet memories for him, renewing the ache left in his chest by the death of his old friend.

McGonagall was willing to employ Remus again as the professor of dark arts, if he would ever accept the position, but so far he had declined each year, either unable to see himself being happy at the castle or simply because he was unwilling to return to the place that reminded him of so many periods of the past. Hogwarts was not the same to him anymore, and though he still felt a fondness for what it had once been to him, he also felt a bleak sorrow; it was best to steer clear, he had decided.

Now he regarded Hermione with a worried eye, feeling at once protective of her and wary of anything having to do with Severus Snape or the Malfoy boy.

"Where did you hear about spell-masters?" he asked, but the kettle began to whistle and Hermione stood up, turning away from him to prep the tea.

She brought the kettle back to the table, then two cups and saucers, the sugar bowl and a carton of cream from the fridge. While the tea steeped, she answered Remus, "it's more like where have I not heard about them -- which would be: essentially everywhere. I read pretty extensively, but there's precious little about them. Rowena Ravenclaw was one, and it's rumoured that Salazer Slytherin was, too, but the next mention of such a person is with regard to Grindelwald, and that's all based on speculation."

_And then there's Snape, _she thought, but did not say it aloud. Severus Snape was beginning to intrigue her, the man was as secretive as she herself was, and she began to suspect that he was every bit as insatiably curious. If there was one thing Hermione had noticed about the people around her, it had certainly to be that they did not possess a tenth the level of determined curiosity that she did, the compulsion to uncover secret things and learn all that she could about everything which she encountered.

Snape was not like most people. In his presence, she became aware, as she seldom felt aware in anyone's presence, that she was under intense scrutiny, the sort of which she usually subjected others to, though they usually didn't notice. Unlike most people, who passed through their daily life largely in what seemed to be a daze, overlooking details and generally not paying very much attention, Snape, like her, paid close attention to everything which happened around him. His mind was fast, he saw correspondences and correlations between things which most people simply overlooked, and he was ever watchful.

_Constant vigilance! _she thought, chuckling softly and grinning.

"Something funny?" Remus inquired, and Hermione was reminded that there was one other person who generally paid close attention, too, and he was in fact sitting with her, watching as she lollygagged in humourous reminiscing.

"Just thinking," she sighed, "constant vigilance, poor mad-eye."

Remus nodded, "yes. At any rate, I think the tea is ready."

He reached over and picked up the tea-pot, filling the two cups. Leaving it to her to add to her tea as she saw fit, he added only some milk to his own and let it sit for a moment to cool. After sipping for a few minutes, he inquired of Hermione, "what occupies your mind?"

Hermione contemplated for a moment, "honestly, I was just thinking that you have many traits befitting a spy."

"You think so?" he asked, looking steadily at her.

Taking another sip, she nodded, looking right back at him with equal fixedness, "you're very intelligent, and very powerful, you think quickly on your feet," she paused, considering him, "and devilishly clever. You pay attention to the things about you, too."

Despite a momentary rise in his heart-beat, he was very calm as she addressed him, and Remus nodded slightly, "where do you get that impression?"

Grinning, Hermione laughed a bit, "simply from watching you, of course. It's not really a bad thing. People give away a lot about themselves, never thinking that someone might actually be paying attention to what they're doing. You're usually so quiet, but you watch everything, you listen to whatever is going on."

"Ah," Remus sighed, drinking the rest of his tea rather quickly, "yes; heightened senses, you know. I don't think I should have liked to be a spy, though."

She nodded slightly, looking past him for a moment, then back to him.

"Remus," she paused, then continued, "you know so much about the dark arts; why is it you won't go back to Hogwarts?"

"There's too much of my past there," he shook his head, leaning back in his chair a bit, "it's a wonderful school, but my time there is finished. It is a place of memories for me."

"Hm..." she considered him for several minutes, then asked, "have you ever heard the terms 'this side here' and 'that side there'?"

His eyes fell from hers, and Remus looked down at his empty tea-cup, "yes," he answered softly, "what have you been studying, Hermione?"

The sombre tone of his voice took her by surprise, and she faltered for a moment, but then answered truthfully, "it's just a term, I came across it a few times in a book."

Looking at her, Remus stated bluntly, "a book about black magic, I have little doubt. Don't be coy with me, Hermione, especially considering what you've only just said about my observant nature. What books have you been reading?"

Hermione looked at Remus, thinking that he must be overreacting. Draco had been a bit cryptic, but he was helpfully allowing her full access to his library, and offering some odd pointers here and there, and even Snape seemed almost willing to answer her questions.

"Just books," she answered, pushing her chair back and standing up to put a bit of distance between them as she spoke, "yes, some about the dark arts, but a book never killed anyone, did it? I'm just curious; I want to learn about these things."

Remus looked at her, "curiosity killed the cat."

She grinned, sitting down again, "but satisfaction brought it back. I don't mean to alarm you," she shrugged, pouring herself some more tea, "I just thought you might know something about it. There isn't much in the books I've read."

"It's not something most people have ever heard of," he sighed, running a hand through his hair and scratching the back of his head, "you should probably just forget about it. Aren't there other things you could be studying and researching?"

"Forget about it? As if," Hermione snorted, shaking her head, "even when I lay some matter aside for further investigation at a later time, I never just leave it and forget. This is just something that seems to have cropped up in several places recently. I don't know if you're familiar with it, but there's a theory of synchronicity which I've studied a bit of, as well."

"I'm surprised you read Jung," Remus said, looking quite surprised as he regarded her.

Hermione grinned sheepishly, "frankly I'm surprised you have, sir. I don't know anyone else who is even vaguely familiar. Even Harry just can't really be bothered."

"Have you heard of Rupert Sheldrake?" he asked, and she shook her head, "you should consider his theories on formative causation sometime, quite worthy of study."

Summoning a pen and paper, Hermione wrote down the name and then looked back over to Remus, "so what do you know about this stuff?"

"It's one of those things you largely have to experience, Hermione," and as he said it, he looked at her very seriously, "don't go looking for it. It's related to dark magic, and if you falter for an instant, it will grip you and take control of you; I don't know if perhaps there is a romantic reason for your saving Draco Malfoy, but you would do well to stay away from him."

Despite herself, a somewhat petulant look crossed Hermione's face for a moment, "jeez, way to make me feel like a kid again sir," then she considered what he'd said and her face grew red, "oh lord no, I do not fancy Draco, absolutely never. It simply wasn't just to leave him rotting away in Azkaban, and besides, he now owes me a great debt of gratitude, so it was worth it."

Although he didn't fully realize it, hearing her say that put Remus slightly more at ease, and he felt rather satisfied to know that she was not attracted to the Malfoy heir. In his mind he began to turn over and consider what spells he would use, as he formed a plan to safeguard Hermione's flat and place wards of protection around her. There was little bound to her lust for knowledge, and Remus knew that from observing her as a student and ever since; she would not listen to him, he knew it, and she would likely end up in trouble sooner than later.

"You're a crafty one, I'll grant you that."

She laughed, "and you're not? God Remus, who was it that made the marauder's map, eh?"

He had the decency to lower his head, smiling, "yes, alright; call it adolescent rebellion. I was, at times, an audacious fool -- although, I respected those rules in which I saw merit."

"And completely disregarded the rest, eh?"

"I suppose so," he acknowledged.

"Do you ever go to the cinema?" she asked after a moment.

He shook his head, "not if I can help it; most of what they show is just rubbish."

Hermione nodded in agreement, "it generally is, yeah. I used to go with my parents, at the weekend mostly, when I was younger, and then sometimes during the summer when I was home on break..." she sighed, thinking about them for the first time in several weeks, "I wish they hadn't been killed on account of me," she took a deep breath, blinking away tears, "it's the only thing I really, truly regret about that whole mess."

Remus reached over and put his hand on her shoulder, his palm warm, giving her a squeeze, "you aren't the one who chose to kill them; you did everything you could."

"I know," she pushed the thoughts of her parents away and smiled, covering Remus' hand with her own for a moment and then standing up, his hand falling away, "well, I hope you weather the full moon alright. I've got some more studying to do; if you change your mind about telling me, will you write to me about what I asked?"

Remus stood up, feeling a bit awkward and rushed. He donned his jacket, "I'll think about it. I just don't want you to be hurt, Hermione -- I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable."

She shook her head, "no, I've just got things to do, that's all. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Would you like to have dinner sometime?"

Surprised, she looked him in the eye, "do you mean at a restaurant, or here?"

"Or my flat," he offered, "I might have some books that would help you."

"Really?" she stood there, speechless and surprised for several seconds before answering, "yes, actually, that would be wonderful. When?" _Wonderful? _she thought, contemplating her word-choice; she felt suddenly antsy, having never been invited to Remus' home. _Goodness, where does he even live? _she wondered, suddenly aware that she hadn't a clue.

"This coming Thursday? I'll need a few days to recover," he offered.

"Of course you will," Hermione nodded affirmatively, calculating that she wouldn't die of curiosity during the interim six days "Thursday is fine for me."

Remus smiled at her, "then I'll come by around six o'clock."

"I look forward to it," Hermione said, and she realized she truly meant it; she gave him a brief hug and then Remus disappeared with a pop.

It was Tuesday when a raven, carrying one Severus Snape's post, alighted upon her windowsill in the early hours of the morning, tapping away at her window until she awoke. Peering at the clock, she realized it was already past seven in the morning, and Hermione sprung from bed, crossing the floor to the window and opening it to admit the bird. Sigmund, Snape had informed her when she inquired, was the name of the bird, and he was an intelligent little buzzard who demanded to be addressed respectfully, as Hermione had also learned.

"Thank you," she informed the feathered creature, untying the scroll attached to its leg.

'Ms. Granger;' his reply began, and she snorted in amusement at his stiff, formal method of address, and his typical spiky script; she'd seen enough of his writing on her papers in school to recognize it in a heartbeat.

'You're on the right track, my dear, but you tread a very thin line.'

"As if you're one to talk," she muttered to the page before her.

'If you fall into the shadow realm, you will never wrest yourself from it again. Take this from one who knows very well what he is speaking of, for I have been there and it is not a place you wish to see. However, if you, as I expect, are wracked with impatience and a burning desire to learn everything which is kept secret from you, I would of course be willing to tell you some of what you seek, and to point you in the direction of the rest.

If the invitation still stands, I will see you this evening at five o'clock.

Most sincerely;

- Severus Snape'

"What a great way to tell me absolutely nothing," she sighed, setting his message down on the edge of her bedside table and searching around for some paper and a pen.

She scribbled her response ('Yes, the invitation stands. See you then. - H. Granger') on a piece of paper and approached his blasted bird again, "please take this to your master," she intoned, and Sigmund stretched out his leg lazily to accept her missive.

"While you're at it, ask him what the shadow realm is," Hermione griped at the bird as he hopped over to her window and then jumped up and out, soaring away into the morning sunlight.

_'The shadow realm is inside you,' _she physically jumped, startled by the sudden voice, yet as she whirled about in a circle, she saw nothing, and heard nothing. After several minutes of straining to hear, she detected nothing but the usual morning traffic of the muggles, and the chirping of what few birds yet remained in the city.

She got herself pulled together and dressed, ate a small breakfast and then apparated to Harry's house, arriving just outside the front door. It was customary for her to knock, but within a moment she opened the door and let herself in. Ginny greeted her in the hall, looking surprised to see her so early in the morning.

"Oh hello Hermione, good morning," Ginny gave her a quick hug hello and motioned toward the kitchen, "we were just having breakfast, what are you up to?"

"Not much," Hermione answered, following Ginny back to the kitchen where, sure enough, Harry was stuffing his face, albeit in something of a dignified manner, at a phenomenal pace, "I'm just curious about something to do with the Ministry of Magic, and I thought you or Harry might be able to tell me."

After Ginny resumed her seat, Hermione sat down across from both her and Harry, who greeted her with a nod and not much else, owing to his full mouth.

"Harry," Hermione decided she was simply going to be perfectly blunt about the matter, "do you think you could get me access to the vaults of ancient literature?"

Harry's fork nearly fell out of his hand, and he looked at her in shock for a moment, then finished chewing and swallowed the bite in his mouth, considering what she'd asked.

"I'm not sure," he answered, "why do you want in there?"

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Feedback is appreciated. The coming chapters will move more quickly; thus far it has been a priming of the stage.


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